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of Ostiak and Samoiedian families, who came in to visit the fair, held from the commencement of winter until February, during which time the natives pitch their tents around the Russian colony. It did not seem, however, that they had come to sell, for they never exposed any wares. This arises from the fact that they all are deeply indebted to the traders, and dare not sell any goods to strangers, for fear of having their property seized, and themselves made slaves.

Although the merchants of Obdorsk complained that the market grew worse every year, M. Castrén found it crowded with traders, chapmen, citizens, peasants, and Cossacks. The most of these were inhabitants of Beresow, and our author, on conversing with them, was struck by the veneration they displayed for Mentschikow, whose memory was consecrated, and who was looked upon as a saint. Whatever this exile had said or done, was remembered as articles of belief. They knew his monotonous life during his banishment and humiliation by heart. After his banishment, he had begun to think seriously of his salvation, and confessed openly that he had deserved the heavy punishment inflicted upon him. To gain forgiveness of his sins, he consecrated the rest of his life to penitence, and built a church at Beresow, in the erection of which he worked like any other artisan. When it was completed, he undertook the duties of sexton in it, and punctually fulfilled them. Each day he was the first and last in the temple, and after divine service was over, he gave the whole community instruction in religious matters. Thus, then, for more than one hundred years had the good deeds of this favourite of Peter the Great smelt sweet and blossomed in the dust.

But we must make an end to this a longæ charta que viæ que," and, while expressing our regret that our readers cannot have the benefit of the map by which M. Castrén has rendered his route perfectly intelligible, we may answer the question, with which we started, why we possess no account of travels in Lapland ? &c. The above fragments are a very satisfactory reply, and we need not expect, until the country grows a little more agreeable, any book under the seductive title of “ Seida-a Siberian Pilgrimage."

WALKS UP HILL. BY H. SPICER, ESQ., AUTHOR OF " SIGHTS AND SOUNDS." THERE are hills in life, and there are hills in Germany. The credit of having detected this remarkable coincidence is not mine, and although I might easily have thrown out the observation as original, and passed quickly on to other matter, I prefer the more honourable course of stating that to Theodore Gertum alone is the credit due. Furthermore, I am in a position to add, by referring to my journal, that it was on the very sultry afternoon of August 18th, 1849, that the discovery in question was made, and communicated to me, as we walked up the hill by Lahneck, by the individual aforesaid, my excellent servant-courier.

“I wish, sir," said Theodore, respectfully touching his hat-" I wish I had three hundred donkeys."

“Three hundred donkeys, man! And why ?”

“ I'd make my fortune here, sir, in five months, and marry Charlotte, if you please, sir.”

“I've not the least intention of forbidding the banns, Theodore, whoever the fair lady may be; but how would you make your fortune here?”

“By walking up hills wiz people on the donkeys, sir. Zat is better,” said Theodore, whose English always degenerated as he became excited, “ zan walking up hills in London, and never getting to ze top. But life's like zis Germany—all hills.” And Theodore sighed and was mute.

The road between Ems and Wiesbaden is certainly an excellent illustration of Nature's dislike to that worst of defunct things—the “dead level.” From the gentle acclivity, characterised by your postilion as a “ mountain,” to the almost interminable rise for which his language apparently furnishes no term sufficiently strong, irregularities are of such frequent recurrence as to make a fair, even trot of ten minutes' duration, a thing to be remembered ; and most who have travelled those now familiar paths will remember one especial eminence, at whose foot your horses generally come to a sullen stop, your driver glances back with a sort of inquiring or suggestive look, intended to convey, “ Wouldn't you like to stretch your legs?" and the courier touches his hat.

Accepting the multiplicity of hints, you descend, and, marching on ahead to escape the dust, move along the winding slopema bank on the left hand, a low stone wall on the right. Beyond the latter are myriads of apple-trees, laden, probably, with rich fruitage, exactly out of your reach, and again beyond the trees, whose peculiar formation cannot exclude it, as sweet a German landscape as fair Nassau can produce. All elements of beauty are here--forest, valley, rock, field, vineyard, and last, but far from least,

the swift and mantling river
That flows triumphant through these lovely regions,
Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent,

And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent. Three times has it been my lot to ascend this individual hill-(it is a mile and a half in length)-and on each occasion in the society of my aforesaid squire, Theodore. As, in the first instance, I happened to ask him for a light for my cigar, it appeared to Theodore a simple matter of course that I should on every succeeding occasion make the same demand. Consequently, though years might have elapsed in the interval, whenever the horses made the usual stop at the usual spot, and the driver gave his usual backward glance, Theodore was ready with cigar and light, and on we trudged in company.

Theodore was an indefatigable talker; the life and soul of the couriers room; holding his associates there, at the same time, in a sort of brotherly contempt that rather increased than diminished his popularity. He was a genius of the most versatile character. He cooked, he sang, he played the guitar and violin (the latter instrument made by himself from the remains of an old tea-chest); he spoke every language under the sun-and more, for he bad words that certainly belonged to none, including patois, which generally resembles its original tongue as much as Coptic. He was accomplished in the lighter arts of shooting, fishing, billiards, and skittles; and, lastly, told excellent stories, which latter, if they did occasionally borrow a tint or so from his fervid German imagination, were at least innocent of any deception—the little deviations from

rigid truth being of the most lucid and transparent kind. Theodore had but one fault. He could never master English surnames; and at length introduced such a revolution into the nomenclature of British society, as ought to have driven Boyle and Webster distracted.

“ What English are in the house, Theodore ?” I inquired, at Schwalbach.

• Lor Dembinck, ze Doctor Spleek, Count Jacoobson, and Sir Ploom, sir,” said Theodore, without hesitation.

I have mentioned that Gertum was an able raconteur. He liked it, and I him. I therefore encouraged his confidences, and was frequently well rewarded ; for there was something in the earnest manner, and often expressive language, of the man, that never failed to create an interest in his tale. I had a suspicion that Theodore was in love; and, by sundry dark insinuations that I was more intimately acquainted with his “ state and prospects” than he had perhaps imagined, elicited the following little love-tale :

She was a very most resspectable woman, I assure you, sir. I wrote to my father as this : “ Sir, I find a diamond in a dust-hole.” She had an uncorrupted mind, and her brain well cultivated. She had lived wiz her mistress, Miss T., ten years, and did everything about the house for her. Poor thing! it is too much. Miss T. sit always on her shoulders—but if ever there was an angel in human skin, it is Charlotte-Charlotte Hudsonne.

So I thought, as she had save a little money, we could be married, and I ask her, and she like me. Yes. Though there was a man that was a valet to Sir Sydney Herbert, of Grosvenor-square, who has saved 30001. and a house in Belgrave-square. (!) Yes, he want to marry her; but she-hem-she prefer Theodore, for she say, “ Theodore, I like you. You are resspectable, and make broths, and I hold confidence in you, Theodore."

Yes, sir, but it was so unfortunate—that poor Charlotte! She quarrel wiz Miss T., and leave her. Miss T. behave shocking; for when Charlotte went to live wiz her, Miss T. promise her all her silk gowns that she leave off, and yet, in the last twelve months, Miss T. give fifteen silk gowns to ze housemaid !!!

Blood and skins could not stand it, so Charlotte say, “ Ma'am, you break my heart. You break everybody's heart that live wiz you. I not live here to be made discomfortable. I go.”

“ Very well, Hydsonne,” Miss T. say. “ I am sorry you didn't like it. Go."

So Charlotte went; but it was a great shame, poor thing! for she live wiz her ten years, and not take off her clothes

“Not take off her clothes! For ten years! Nonsense, man— "

I mean, sir, when her mistress was ill wiz her rheumatism. And though Miss T. was so bad and painful, poor Charlotte never once complain. Well, sir, soon Miss T. get nervous, and ill, and could not be herself wizout Charlotte; and she sent for Sir Chambers, ze great doctor, and he felt her tongue, and looked at her pulses, and then he say:

“ You nonsense! There nozing at all the matter wiz you. Why you send for me?"

“ Well,” said Miss T., “I pay you, Sir Chambers. Ah!"

There something in you heart, milady," he say then. “Ha! ha! you in love !" he say, slily.

Then she laugh, and he go away.

But Mr. T., her brother, he come to visit her, and ask her why she so nervous and sad, and she tell him all about Charlotte, and she say:

“ Henry, I am miserable wizout Hudsonne, but I am too proud to write and ask her to come.”

“Well, well,” say Mr. T., “don't fret yourself ill, my dear. That's a fool thing-a bêtise. Poof!"

But ze next day Mr. T. took a pen in his hands, and he wrote to Charlotte :

“ CHARLOTTE,—I hope you not refuse to come back to your mistress ; for it is a family wish, and she ill, and not get on wizout you. Ah!

“HENRY T.” So Charlotte write backwards, and say she would come, if Miss T. would pay her for the time she lose, not in place, since she left; and Mr. T. say, “Oh, you shall.”

So she came, and Miss T. receive her very kind, and say,

“Oh, Charlotte-is it you? And I am glad to see your back, Charlotte."

And Charlotte say she very sorrowed to go, but if Miss T. make it comfortable, she stay till-till no time! Yes, she staythough she want to go and take a little house, with a little business, and a servantmaid, and chickens, and a husband.

And Miss T. say, “Charlotte, you stay wiz me, and never mind marrying (which is nozing, believe me), and I leave you some provisions in my will."

So Charlotte stay. But Miss T. ask her, while she dress her hairs, who she wanted to marry; and when Charlotte not answer, she say again :

“I suspect it Theodore-eh ?”

And she seem not to like it, though she would before speak well of me. And afterward she do very bad-as I shall tell you, sir.

IN THE CELLAR. Well, sir, there was one malfortunate thing. That Flannery Kitty Flannery—the under-housemaid. She was a great tale-talker, and I think she spy upon me. I once pass three hours in a white waistcoat, on ze top of a coal!

It was this:

Miss T. say to Charlotte while she dress her, “ Charlotte, why Theodore never come to see you? You say he love you, and he come not. Poof!"

“Madam,” say Charlotte, quiet, “you know no followers allowed Theodore knew your rule, and he spare your feelings.”.

(And so I did, sir, for I always tie my handkerchiefs round my foot, and steal down the back-area.)

“Oh,” say Miss T., “that no matter. Love get through all holes, and play snap-fingers at regulations."

“Did he, ma'am ?” say Charlotte, innocent. “Very well. You know more about him than I do.”

Well, sir-and so, next night, I come to the area, and that fool Flanagan, the Irish footman (a great rogue, and my friend), forget to oil the lock, and only rub the chain ;, so the lock go cle-e-ek, and Miss T. hear him, where she sit tea-ing wiz Lord Jones and Miss Augusta, who should marry his lordship, and she get up and come down. But we get notice—and oh! what a row!

“ Here, Theodore-the scullery !"
“No, no, the chimney! Quicks! quicks !"

“ No, she look there! The oven, Theodore. It nearly cool. You won't care, for ten minute."

“Here, Theodore, the coal-hole-that's the place,” said that spiteful Flannery. And, wiz my white waistcoat, and new black coat and wristbands, I go down to the coals.

Miss T. enter.
“ Who zat ?”
“ If you please, 'm, it was not any person at all, 'm."
“ I say, who zere? I heard the area-gate squeak.”

“Please, 'm," said cook, all grave, “it's the cat. She makes a noise for all the world like that ere area-gate. Ad rat that cat! It's my belief she does it a-puppies to tease. We're runned off our legs, we are, a-going to that area to let nobody in."

* It's very odd,” say Miss T. “Well, leave these doors open. I don't mind the noise. I like to hear your cheerful voices.”

“ Yes, please, 'm.”

And Miss T. go; and she sit up till half-past twelve. Lord Jones go away ; and Miss Augusta to bed; and I, in my white waistcoat, counting my thumbs, for three hours, on the top of a coal!

But I grow tired at last. All the servants go to bed, except Charlotte and that Flannery, and still Miss T. sit up. Then I hear her call for fresh candles, and ach! I know she suspect me. So I get up, open the coal-door, and walk out like a gentleman come to take my teas. Miss T. look up quiet, not surprise ; and she say:

" Oh, Theodore ! how you do? I'm afraid you find my cellar dull. Why you in such haste to leave us, Theodore ?"

I was mad, and I say, bowing:

“ Madam, you know love get through all holes, even coal-holes—but perhaps he not like to stay there always." And I go.

EARLY STRUGGLES. Yes, sir : and so, at last, Charlotte resolve to go hands and feet, and we fix the day; but she promise to stay wiz Miss T. till the very morning. I take her from Miss T.'s house to the church, and then to her own.

Now, Charlotte fortune was 1801., and of that we pay 1301. for the goodwill of the café, and 301. for rent, and 201. we put by for a showery day.

Before Charlotte leave Miss T., she say to her, spiteful, “ If you had not marry a German, Charlotte, I give you a wedding-breakfast cost me 1001. Now, you take, if you wish, ze old stair-carpet ; and I promise you I look sharp after my plate-chest, for I think you rent get in arrear, and Theodore pay it in silver-spoons. Poof!"

Yes, sir; and I wrote to Miss T. when I hear this, and I say:

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